


Remorse

by BenVSA



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ignores 3x22 onwards, Implied Sterek Feelings, Nogitsune Stiles, Post 3x21, Prompt Fic, werewolf Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenVSA/pseuds/BenVSA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Scott and Stiles dealing with the sudden, and violent, death of Derek Hale<br/>--<br/><i>“Stiles?” He was pulled out of his thoughts by Scott, finally able to enter the room and putting a gentle supposedly comforting hand on his best friend’s shoulder.<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Remorse

**Author's Note:**

> The very first Prompt I get and it HAS to be this doesn't it? Ah well, beggars can't be choosers.  
> This fic is (possibly) ignoring anything that happens post 3x21, I say possibly because for all we know... yeah, let's not go there just yet hm?  
> I'm taking prompts of all varieties on my tumblr for just some short fics, I'll post a link at the end if you wish to send one in.

Nothing but silence filled the room as they just stood there, Scott still standing in the doorway, just taking the situation in while Stiles rested himself up against the wall of the penthouse.

Scott really didn’t know what to say as he took in the sight of the apartment, there’d still not been a chance to completely clean up after the incident and so the floorboards were left a dark red with dried up blood. Derek’s. Admittedly, not an uncommon occurrence around Beacon Hills, but certainly the largest amount, like some sickening art project. It smelt thickly of the werewolf, but with the slightest sour, pungent aroma that made Scott just want to be sick.

Stiles just stood like in shook, staring straight at the red stains splattered all over the floor and just… taking them in. He swallowed heavily and brought his hands to his mouth, sliding his fingers together and pressing the back of his knuckles to his lips.  At the same time, he slid down the wall, hitching his clothes up as he did so, an action he’d normally be fast to remedy, but he was so lost in his mind at the situation, he didn’t particularly care.

In fact, it made the situation even less believable to understand. Last checking in at 149 pounds, he was skinny, pale and often claimed that his sarcasm and wit were his only defences. Yet he could still remember the situation clearly, no matter how much he tried to forget. It was difficult to ignore the vision of yourself backhanding a wall of muscle like Derek across a room like he was an empty plastic bottle and then just launching after him like a wild animal.

He wasn’t in control of his body at the time, that’s what everyone reassured him, it was the Nogitsune, giving him strength he could only imagine before, but leaving him unable to do anything with it. He just tore into the werewolf like his was a napkin, shown not to be so difficult by numerous other werewolves and supernatural beings before, it wasn’t uncommon that Derek seemed an easy target to overpower and wound. The countless amount of times they’d saved him, _Stiles_ had saved him, a once unassuming, caring teenager, posing no threat to anyone.

He couldn’t say that any more. He’d not only done damage to Derek Hale, he’d been the one to end the werewolf’s life. It didn’t matter what anyone said to him, whether he was in control or not. To see someone’s life end by his own hands was the single most haunting image, burned into his mind, every time he closed his eyes, that glowing blue light, a colour he had an odd connection to went dark by his doing.

“Stiles?” He was pulled out of his thoughts by Scott, finally able to enter the room and putting a gentle supposedly comforting hand on his best friend’s shoulder. How could Scott see him like that anymore? See him like a brother after what he’d done? “We don’t have to be here, the funerals soon, we need to get going.”

Stiles shook his head. “It’s fine, man,” he answered weakly. “Just… head down to the jeep, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Scott hesitated, they both knew what he wanted to ask, and they both knew the answer. He tried to give his most sympathetic look before leaving Stiles alone, the silence descending down on him again like a brick wall. It was like he could still feel Derek in the room, like his smugness had an aura to it and any minute now he’d descend that spiral staircase and belittle Stiles for being here.

His eyes flickered over to the stairs at the thought, never having seen much of the apartment other than the front room. He stared at it blearily for a few moments before temptation became too much for him and he slowly got to his feet, made his way over and ascended. He wasn’t sure what exactly to expect as the apartment had housed not only Derek, but also Peter, and at one point Isaac. But it was obvious that Derek preferred himself some of the finer things when he could get them. The entire floor seemed like a bedroom. A king sized bed adorning the centre, wardrobes pressed to the far wall and a couple of amenities.

Stiles just let his eyes roam for a few moments, taking it in and feeling a shudder going through him. The burnt Hale manor, the closed of subway centre, to here. He couldn’t help but think to himself that the werewolf deserved something like this after everything the guy had been through. His body seemed to be on autopilot for a few moments, slowly wandering over to the bed and letting himself fall on top of the covers, ruffling his already crumpled clothing even more.

He just laid there for a few moments, closing his eyes and taking everything in. Despite how long it had been, he could smell Derek here, inciting memories from the last year and a half, constantly having his personal space invaded by him, and just taking in that smell, rough and earthy, masculine but not overpowering. It was like his mom. How sometimes after he’d lost her, he’d go to her perfume box, open it up and just smell her. This felt just as powerful, just as hurtful. He gripped at the sheets as his eyes glowed that cursed blue, shuddering an inhale.

“I’m sorry,” he husked, curling up and slowly breaking down into sobs. “I’m so so sorry…"

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt information and details in send one in, click on http://benvsa.tumblr.com/prompt


End file.
